I MURDERED a Dance Mom!

Not just ANY dance mom.

She was a “DefCon One, Maximum Readiness” Dance Mom.

(DefCon One is actually the highest level, NOT five as is commonly thought. I check these things here because in the wee hours of the night, I worry for our nation’s safety.)

You’re welcome.

This species can be identified by copious amounts of makeup, an overabundance of cleavage, high heels completely unsuitable for dashing around backstage, and clothes flashing enough bling to give you a cluster headache.

They’re the ones timing, in seconds, the amount of time their kid has dancing front row center.

And keep records of how much this is in comparison to the other dancers.

 

I WISH I was kidding about this

 

Little Dude studies Hip Hop dance.

I got tired of him “break his neck” dancing in my family room, so I suggested a class.

Out went basketball, in came dance.

I struggled with that a bit.

We have a basketball hoop in our driveway, and I ENJOYED the 12 inch height advantage playing hoops with him.

 

I don’t cut it as a dance mom. (Did I even have to write that?)

It’s not just that the typical dance mom is as annoying as a painful rectal itch.

I work; often, during the same hours he takes classes.

I can’t sit in the studio, glued to a monitor, salivating over his every move.

Even when I can, I don’t. I HAVE SHIT TO DO.

I have no interest in living vicariously through him.

It’s enough I’ve given him a permanent twitch I’m über invested in him academically.

I harbor no delusions that he’s going to MAKE it on Broadway.

 

I don’t even know these batshit-crazy whooty-whore Dance Moms.

Someone else drops him off. And when I pick him up, the last thing I want to do is make small talk with a Dance Mom.

It’s like interacting with an endless loop about finding good help, and how her bikini wax burned her beef curtains.

It’s not that I find them Loathsome and Soulless.

It’s that they ARE.

So, I wait in the car.

 

 

The recital was this past Saturday.

Before I describe THAT debacle, you need the proper context.

The school is run by 2 frazzled overwhelmed employees, and the only 3 other women in the county besides me who aren’t married to wealthy men.

Working to offset the exorbitant cost is slightly less painful than selling a kidney.

 

The men actually walk around in these shirts.

 

They’re so understaffed that every event – Picture Day. Dress Rehearsal. The Recital – is a giant cluster of FUCK.

Recital Day, we have to be at the theatre at 9 am. Yes, 9 in the AM because there are FORTY FIVE dance routines.

My kid blasted Avicii the whole 45 minute drive to the recital and I let him, even though on two hours of sleep my head was pounding and I was feeling stabby.

 

The dance school can’t just use a high school gymnasium. No, they rent out an 1800-seat theater.

NOTHING is too good for these little darlings.

 

YES. And it’s at least 3/4 full.

So, CHAOS.

I get Little Dude checked in back stage.

Because I’m not really part of the clique, I’m always greeted with a “where the FUCK did this skinny bitch come from” look by the other moms.

 

I find my seat, which is with my Ex and his sister and her husband.

My Ex has that “restraining order” look in his eyes.

I start live tweeting the entire event, just to relieve my anxiety.

 

I’m sitting exactly 92 seconds when my bag mysteriously falls onto the floor, which is a superpower I have.

Making objects that appear firmly planted just plunge to the ground.

It over turns, dumping the contents everywhere, and knocking over my can of Red bull, which spills and gets my phone SOAKED.

OMG WE ARE NOW IN HIGH ALERT BECAUSE IF I CAN’T LIVE TWEET THROUGH THIS WHOLE MOTHERFUCKER I WILL SURELY DIE.

I stuff all manner of wet objects back into my wet purse and the old dude sitting next to me graciously helps me.

I wipe my phone frantically on my shirt; it appears to be still working.

Thank God.

 

Now I get to sit through HOURS of watching other people’s kids dance.

This might not have been so excruciating if the elderly gentleman hadn’t decided that since he retrieved wet tampons from the floor for me, he is now my  BFF.

He was a Nudger. He kept nudging me whenever he found something entertaining.

I kinda would rather have a tire hung around my neck, filled with gasoline and set on fire than be continuously nudged by an Old Dude over other people’s kids.

 

It’s adorable when 5 2-year olds who HAVE NO EARTHLY CLUE what they’re doing get led onto an enormous stage in front of a trazillion strangers. 

3 of them started crying full throttle melt down.

I almost started crying like this out of sheer boredom.

 

I speak toddler. They were clearly saying:

“I want my mommy, this fucking tutu is scratchy, why I am being paraded out here like an organ grinder’s monkey, where is MOMMY, my vagina is itchy, okay that feels better now, what is UP with this goddamn tutu, MOMMY!”

And then one who was standing there dazed, like she just hotboxed some good weed, all of a sudden came to, and starting jerking her hands and feet in a frenzy.

It was FRIGHTENING.

I don’t think 2 year olds can have strokes, but that’s what it looked like.

 

I had to help Little Dude do his one costume change.

The boy’s dressing room is not the bedlam the girl’s is, so it went smoothly.

Besides the part where I held some strange boy’s head while he nerve- barfed into a garbage pail.

 

I headed back to my seat and remembered we were going out to lunch afterwards. (The Ex was lobbying for Hooters).

I’d left the house in a rush, and looked like a bushpig.

I wanted to get myself together a little.

So I darted into the girls dressing room to put on some lipgloss and comb my hair.

It was complete pandemonium.

The Dance Moms were flapping the fuck out.

I just needed to secure 4 square inches of mirror.

Before you could say ‘jazz hands,’ that DefCon One Dance Mom was giving me the stink eye.

“This is where Kerry is,” she said, self importantly.

She had an entire counter filled with giant tackleboxes holding dance recital accoutrement.

I smiled pleasantly.

“I just need this little spot for a minute.”

“But this is where KERRY is,” she repeated. Loudly. And – ominously.

“Look, lady – I’m sorry I don’t know Kerry, and worship her suitably, as befits her eventual illustrious contribution to the dance world.

But I need 4 square inches and I’m OUT.”

 

She turned purplish and barked at me,

“Well, I’m telling Joellen (the owner of the studio) about this!

“Really? Well, you could fill a ROOM with how much shit I don’t give, you cock mongling queefburger,” (I thought).

And then I STABBED. HER. TO. DEATH.

 

Okay. Not really. But I wanted to.

 

As the show progressed, I became increasingly more disturbed by the costumes, makeup and dance moves for the hip hop routines.

It’s safe to say, I’m no prude.

But I fail to see the connection between hip hop dance, and dressing up 12-year-old girls like Miami hookers.

Do they need to wear so much makeup they look like prostitots? Some of the “costumes” amounted to no more than glittery lingerie.

And in case the lack of clothing didn’t sexualize them enough, the only thing the  choreographed “moves” were missing was a stripper pole.

These 7 year olds look conservative compared to what I saw.

 

It got me to wondering if this is a contributing factor to the massive promiscuity among high schoolers in my area.

As I tweeted my distaste for these little girl’s attire and gyrations,

Gretchen tweeted another disturbing thought; that this was “a pedophile’s Disneyland.”

Ugh.

I don’t even want to think about that.

 

The bottom line:

WHITE PEOPLE HAVE DESTROYED HIP HOP.

It used to mean something. The lyrics and the beats spoke politically and relevantly of a generation that was lost, in a way that the lost generation could relate to.

It was taken over by white corporate America which released garbage that’s palatable to the white ear.

It became commercialized and watered down.

More easily digestible for white teenagers who wanted to feel cool.

Increasingly focused on materialism and posturing.

Granted, this had always inflected the genre but hadn’t totally defined it.

From there, it was only a pop-and-lock away from the suburban dance studios.

 

I know putting my kid in these classes makes ME a part of the problem.

I’ve let his joy in these classes eclipse any politics I have about the mainstreaming of hip hop music.

 

The truth is, once hip hop became a staple in suburban dance schools across America, it was no longer relevant.

Hip hop has become a reason to have 12 year old suburban girls grind onstage in stripper outfits. 

I’m so relieved I have a son.

 

Who, by the way,  rocked that shiz like frozen crazy!

 

 

Okay, I didn’t REALLY kill a dance mom. The only thing that has died is hip hop’s relevancy.

 

However, next year? I’m bringing Beth with me. She tweeted that she was right behind me with a shiv, if I needed back up.

And that’s friendship.

 

Do you have to deal with Dance Moms? Or overbearing parents in general?
Am I the only one who finds these hip hop routines/costumes disturbing?
Does anyone else check for nuclear safety? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening.